Graduation Day
by Daxxers
Summary: Stealing the artifact was easy. Getting away was not. Wounded, friendless, hunted by the enraged minions of a fanatical Cleric, two thieves seek Sanctuary. Night has fallen. No help is coming. Time is running out. (This story takes place one week after the events in "Training Day". Not Beta-read. Hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcome.)
1. Chapter 1

**Graduation Day**

 _ **Stealing the artifact was easy. Getting away was not. Wounded, friendless, hunted by the enraged minions of a fanatical Cleric, two thieves seek sanctuary. Night has fallen. No help is coming. Time is running out**_ **.** _(This story takes place one week after the story_ 'Training Day' _. Not_ _Beta-read. Hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcome.)_

 **Prologue: Legend & Myth**

 _Myth says that in ages past Tyche, Goddess of Luck, was split in twain. The halves transformed into_ Tymora _, Goddess of Good Luck, and_ Beshaba _, The Maid of Misfortune. From the day of their creation, the sisters clashed. They battle still, to this day each attempting to influence the fate of mortals, for better or worse._

 _At the very moment the goddess was slain and reformed a_ _holy relic special to Tyche was broken in two, or so legend says._ _The pieces of this artifact, the Trysech, are sought by followers of both the Tymoran and Beshaban churches. It is believed that whomever controls both pieces can permanently alter luck in their favour._

 **Chapter 1 – One Thief, Two Thief.**

The rats stopped their never-ending quest for food. Alert to sounds coming from the hall, they skittered away into darker corners as the room's sagging wooden door flew open. Dust motes, illuminated by faint moon beams that slid through the cracked window slats, danced around the room. Other than a few rats braver than their brothers, rags and a broken chair were all the room contained. An empty room, in a weather-beaten building, on a deserted street in one of the more disreputable parts of Old Town.

Not as deserted as she would have liked, supposed Daelynn. They will be here soon.

The elf half dragged, half carried her companion to the far side of the room and lay him on the floor beneath the window. He groaned. Still alive, thank Tymora! Their luck was holding. An odd prayer to offer, all things considered, the elf thought.

Leaving her wounded friend for a moment, Daelynn stepped back to the hallway, eyes and ears alert to any sign that their presence was known to others. The elf moved down the hall pausing at the door to the staircase they had just climbed. Pulling a few small, barbed metal wedges from her bag, she fastened the door to its frame. Neither the door nor its frame was stout - anyone could force it open. But now they would make noise doing that. A simple alarm.

Returning to the musty room where Sir Roland lay, she closed the door and looked to her friend's injuries. Needing more light, she removed her cloak, hung it over the window, and pulled out a small glowing coin from Roland's belt. By its light she examined her master's wounds. Ignoring the numerous small cuts, nicks and several bruises, she focussed her attention on a deep and still bleeding gash in his left side. She replaced a bandage that she had hastily applied less than an hour ago. Pulling a vial from her belt she uncorked it and slowly poured the contents into the man's mouth. He swallowed, coughed, and struggled to sit up. She firmly held him down.

"Do not move, old fool. I am trying to stop the bleeding."

"Ye're na succeedin," was Roland's raspy response.

'No. That was the second healing brew. I do not understand. You should be better."

"Hmph. I'd wager the blade thet made this hole in ma side was poison'd. Any elix'r will restore ma health, only to have it drained away as the poison slowly kills ma."

"You think their blades were poisoned?"

"Aye. Bin poisoned a few times - feels the same. Na healin' potion can fix thet. Needs an alch'mist, herb'list or a good cleric."

"We are in Old Town and it is near the middle of the night. We are unlikely to find any one of those. Healing can be found in the Temple Quarter. And it is there where you must deliver that."

With a nod of her head she indicated a modest sized satchel that lay beside Roland.

"Figur'd that out, did ya?"

"Aye. We have worked closely together for over a year Sir Roland. Your curses and prayers are mostly for Tymora, Goddess of Good Luck. We steal sacred relics associated with The Smiling Lady, or the Bad Sister. Since meeting your friend, Mistress Alline, I have now twice been tricked or tasked with breaking into and desecrating Beshaban shrines. I would wager Mistress Alline herself is your employer? So, even a Church has need of thieves?"

"Not so much a thief, lass, as ... an agent of ... divine will? The Preceptr'ss can explain it ta ya."

"Hmm. Still, you need to get that relic out of Beshaban hands. And as only a powerful cleric will be able to heal you, we go to the Temple Quarter."

"Thet could be diff'cult."

"Why? Because dozens of Black Scar gang members hunt us through the streets? Or because the cleric of an insane bitch-goddess is using divine magicks to stalk us?"

"Thems the reasons I were thinkin'. And o' course there's the Black Fingers."

"You mentioned them just after we escaped the shrine with the other half of the Trysech." She briefly glanced at the closed bag again. "Who, or what, are they?"

"Assassins devoted to Beshaba. They range far an' wide carryin' out killin's and terrorizin' people. They may've been in Capitol ta take possession o' this part o' the Trysech. But now, Braxes'll use 'em ta kill us."

"They were the two we fought in the reliquary", she asked? "They were good. Very fast."

"Aye, they be thet. Ye may not have notic'd in the excitement of fightin' and runnin' for our lives, but their index finger is stained black. 'Tis their mark o' distinction. They usually trav'l in twos. As Braxes' goddess has favoured 'im with a c'rtain spell, he's able to locate the Trysech and set the pair o' them aft'r us. They'll use the gang memb'rs to draw us out. The assassins'll finish us off."

"Then we have only one Black Finger to worry about," the elf replied.

The elder thief looked quizzically at his apprentice. "Oh? Did ye wound the odder one then? Braxes'll heal 'im, ye can be sure."

Daelynn offered a sardonic smile. "Is Braxes so powerful a cleric that he can raise the dead? No? Then we have only the one Black Finger with which to contend."

Roland regarded the young elf. She was staring at the glowing coin, not meeting his eyes. The fight had been short, fast and furious. He'd had no time to watch over her. After receiving the poisoned knife to his side he'd barely been able to knock his foe down, grab the relic and run. He certainly had not killed the man. He'd noticed Daelynn's foe lying prone on the stone floor but assumed she'd incapacitated him as she had all her foes, using the monkish fighting skills taught to her by her father.

"Ah. Yer first kill. I'm sorry girl."

The elf nodded. When she spoke, her voice was tight. "I knew this day would come. But it happened so quickly. His speed and skill… were astounding. I have never fought so hard, Roland. I never knew I could move that fast! I dodged each strike, but the next was closer, and the next one even closer. I had no choice."

Tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head, took a deep calming breath, and looked at her mentor. "He will not be the last one I kill this night, will he? If we are to live…"

"'Tis them or ye. And I see nothin' wrong with it bein' ye who goes home t'night. Think on all this later. Right now, I fear we have company comin'," he responded as the sound of someone pushing against a door, followed by a soft curse, came from the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Graduation Day**

 **Chapter 2 – Hurt Thief, Dead Thief.**

The hallway floorboards creaked. They were there - just beyond the door! The elf held her breath, watching the crude latch as it waggled. Roland was slumped against the far wall, unconscious again - or possibly dead - it was difficult to tell. Her cloak over the window made the room just dim enough for her darkvision to be of use. She had a slight advantage over the men who hunted them.

Daelynn relaxed her hold on the shortsword. Too tight a grip reduced wrist flexibility and slowed one's parry; too loose a grip and you could be disarmed. She exhaled slowly, controlling her breathing and focusing on the opening door. 'Tymora,' she prayed. 'Grant me luck!'

The door was half open when a dark shape slipped silently through the opening and into the room. The elf attacked.

As she cleaned off her sword, she surveyed the destruction she had wrought. Two more deaths. Two young men who followed a dark goddess, now lay dead by her hands. Her shortsword, driven by all her strength and fear, had pushed past the first man's guard, through the light leather armor he wore, and slid between ribs to still his heart. Daelynn had thrown him aside, leaving her sword stuck in his chest, and leapt upon the second man before he could react. Grabbing the front of his jerkin, she placed a foot on his hip, fell back and pulled him on top of her. Using momentum, surprise and strong legs, she threw him over her. He landed hard on his back, winded. Twisting, she jumped to her feet and grabbed him, wrapping long arms tightly around his neck. With clasped wrists she heaved upwards then brought all her weight down. There was a snapping sound. The second man lay still.

Why did she mourn those who tried to kill her?

Pushing a lock of dark hair back in to place, she sheathed her blade, stepped to the window and recovered her cloak. She saw movement down the street. Time to go. She bent over Roland and examined his wound. The bleeding had stopped. The elder thief's eyes fluttered open. He surveyed the room.

"Ah, sorry I missed thet. Must've fall'n asleep."

"You passed out."

"Thet's unkind." With Daelynn's assistance he climbed unsteadily to his feet. "Best ye leave ma here. You'd make bett'r time without ma."

"We had that conversation an hour ago," Daelynn replied. "We stay together."

"Rooftops… 'tis too…"

"Too bright with the moon out. I know. We stick to laneways and alleys." The elf placed Roland's right arm around her shoulder and neck and started to drag-carry him to the doorway. She knew her mentor could not negotiate a roof edge in his present condition.

"Did I mention the Black Fingers?"

"Aye. You did."

"Hmm. Must be del'rious… the poison."

"Could be age."

"Don't be rude."

The streets got busier as they approached the market. Although late, some shops and most taverns were open. A staggering couple wandering through the backways of Old Town was nothing out of the ordinary. They melded easily with revelers, merchants, and ordinary folk out enjoying the clear, cool, autumn night.

But this was Black Scar domain. The alliance that the Beshaban cleric Braxes had with his old gang meant that every street tough, pickpocket, or fence affiliated with the Scars would be on the lookout for two, wounded, furtive, cloaked figures. And as the hours grew later, fewer people would be about to offer cover or distraction. The pair stopped in the shadow of a farrier's shed, the scent of horses strong in the air. Roland's breathing was labored and he was sweating despite the cool night air.

"We could lie low until daylight," opined the elf.

"Doubt I'll make it 'til then, but we could try. Trouble is lass, movin' is the only thin' that disturbs Braxes' location spell. If we stop too long, he finds us. An' daylight means more City Guard patrols. Bound ta be snitches in thet lot."

"Would Sard help us… help you," asked the elf?

"Thieves Guild? Ha, not likely. They try ta stay neutral in churchly matters. More o' the boyos follow Tymora or Mask then the likes o' Beshaba. But the Bad Sister has her adh'rents in the Guild."

"But Sard himself?"

Roland pursed his lips and took a few deep breaths that caused him to cough. Clearing his throat, he answered Daelynn. "Not sure. 'Though it were years ago, we parted on bad terms. I'd rathe'r not invovev 'im. B'sides, no way to get a message to 'im. Not from Scar territ'ry. We'd have ta track 'im down ourselves."

"Your Shadows?" She asked, looking at the black metal ring on his left hand.

"I've na the strength left to control 'em. Best na to try thet. Trust me."

A shrill whistle from behind them caused Daelynn to turn and look back. Several figures were making their way from side streets, moving through the late night crowd in their direction. Time to move, again. Around the farrier's shed, through a barn, and across a courtyard belonging to a mostly reputable inn. Past the jakes and along another alleyway. Their path zig-zagged across Old Town, always toward the market and the gate to the Temple Quarter. Which would be guarded. This chase was only delaying the inevitable. Daelynn was unaware that she had been speaking aloud until Roland answered her.

"True," replied Roland. "But _'_ _Chase yer own goals, and the Lady aids yer chase_ _'_. Or so says some Tymoran maxim."

"Aye. I've heard that one. I prefer _'Fortune favours the bold; to_ _be bold is to live'_ ".

A coughing fit stopped Roland's retort. The elf helped steady him until the paroxysm passed. They had stopped in a narrow, dark alley just off the market square. Roland had stopped sweating. Daelynn removed a glove and touched his face. It was hot. She looked around. A shuttered window caught her eye. It took only the space of a few quick breaths for her to pry the shutter's latch open. She helped Roland inside and lowered him onto sacks filled with flour and grains. They were in the back room of a modest sized store house, which opened onto the marketplace. She peered through the covered front of the building into the market square. Still busy, even at this late hour. Nearly half the stalls were open for business. A mere fifty yards away was the small guardhouse that marked the entrance to the Temple Quarter. She hurried back to her companion.

"Sir Roland," she whispered fiercely. "We are almost at the gateway!"

Her mentor smiled weakly at her and nodded. Roland's eyes then closed and a long, slow breath escaped his lips. He lay serene and unmoving. Holding her friend's hands, Daelynn let her tears flow. She recited a prayer to Tymora, kissed the old man's forehead and removed the bag which held the other half of the relic from his still form. Standing, she wiped her eyes and checked her weapons. It was time to finish her master's quest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Graduation Day**

 **Chapter 3 – A Debt Repaid**

Daelynn moved quietly and mostly unnoticed through the late-night market crowd. She had flipped her cloak over revealing a fine blue silk lining, and had pulled the cloak's hood down, revealing her elven features. Raven hair, now worn loose about her shoulders, framed her face. The striking looking elf maid appeared far different from one of two, drab, grey skulking figures who had infiltrated and defiled a Beshaban shrine hours earlier.

She circled the market searching for a specific vendor. She had almost completed her circuit when her eye was drawn to a tall merchant standing in a small stall, who, based on his wares, appeared to specialize in the selling of exotic spices. Ah! The rumors she had ferreted out over the past week looked to be true. Roland's caution notwithstanding, she approached the stall from the side and offered a greeting in a low voice.

"Good evening, Sard."

The merchant immediately stopped what he was doing. Without turning he responded to his visitor. "Roland is the only one who could ever sneak up on me like that. It's fitting that his apprentice has that same skill. And a 'good evening' to you, too, 'Kestrel'."

"Roland is dead."

Sard did not move. "Did the old fox die well?"

"No. Poisoned."

Sard slowly turned to face Daelynn. The elf examined the thief's visage. The first time they had met both were masked. His dark, alluring eyes now shone with unshed tears. The sardonic grin he offered to the world was gone. Instead, his mouth was a thin, tight line. Sard's own eyes widened slightly upon seeing her elven features. The violet eyes that had so captivated him when they had first met were bright. A beautiful and sad face.

"I know why you are here, Kestrel. The Guild has been approached by representatives of both Tymora and her sister. We cannot be involved in this. The Guild brethren – "

"Spare me the blather about Guild unity, charters and the balancing of Guild interests. I have heard it before, remember? I have no interest in hearing more," stated the elf.

Sard drew himself up and was about to offer a retort when Daelynn held up her hand, forestalling any defense.

"Upon your honor, Sard, do you owe anything to Sir Roland? Is there a debt? If so, as his apprentice, I claim what is owed."

Sard frowned. Then scowled. Ah, he had not been expecting that, crowed the elf to herself! The master thief looked down, shook his head, then locked eyes with Roland's apprentice.

"Kestrel, you place me in an awkward situation. As a member of the Guild..."

"You mean as one of The Five, who sit on the Guild Council that rules the Guild?"

In way of acknowledgement of that fact, Sard accorded the elf a small smile.

"As a member of the Guild Council I need to uphold the rulings, no matter what my personal opinion. But, the debt which you now hold was incurred long before I became a Guild thief. What do you need?"

"To reach Tymora's temple. And we both well know that all gateways that lead through the wall about the Temple Quarter are watched. I need another route."

Sard opened his mouth, only to close it as the elf continued to speak.

"Save any talk about swimming canals or crawling through sewers. We are in Old Town – no sewers. And the canal is far to the north. I have not the time to galivant about Capitol. As you may have already noticed, my pursuers have arrived."

Sard had seen the group of men and women enter the far end of the market. They were fanning out and approaching each and every person in the marketplace. No pretense was made about their mission. Cloaks, cowls and hats were stripped from any and every person encountered. Bags and sacks were searched. The gang toughs were unopposed as the City Guard house by the gateway was strangely empty.

"Follow me," said the master thief. Pulling a large bag out from beneath his vending stand, he slung it over a shoulder and left his stall. Unnoticed by the Guild Councillor, Daelynn quickly scooped up a bag of spice slightly larger than her fist, securing it within her vest. The two walked directly away from the Black Scar troops and entered a dark alleyway that ran parallel to the old wall that circled the Temple Quarter.

"This wall that surrounds the Temple complex is only some fifteen or so feet high," explained Sard. "It affords privacy to the Quarter. As Temple loot is quite enticing to unscrupulous thieves, the wall is guarded. Each temple that abuts the wall is responsible for guarding their portion of it. Common stretches are patrolled by the City Guard. At night, the wall is lit by torches or light spells along much of its length. Another disincentive to my brothers and sisters who practice the concealing arts."

"Can we get through or under the wall," asked Daelynn? "It is centuries old. There must be tunnels, hidden doors or passageways."

"Three ways, that I know. One leads to a temple which I think you rather might not want to enter as that God is allied with Beshaba. Another leads to the Temple of the Triune God and is heavily guarded and trapped. Many a brother and sister has lost their life trying that route."

"And the third," asked the elf?

"Thieves Highway," replied Sard, pointing up to a roof. "There is an old signal tower not far from here. It looms over a section of the wall that is not well lit. A talented thief could jump from the tower down onto the wall, avoid or kill the guards along that stretch of it, then slip over it in to deeper shadows. The Tymoran temple would then be some hundred yards across the plaza."

Sard and Daelynn threaded their way through alleys and lanes, arriving at the old tower without incident. Long derelict, it now housed only vermin. Fires, weather and rot had taken their toll.

"How is it that it still stands," asked the elf? "Half of it is near gone - the top floors are open to the elements, and I swear it leans far to the left! Is it swaying?"

Rank garbage and broken pieces of the tower itself filled most of the ground floor. Picking their way through the filth, Daelynn and Sard approached a massive beam that slanted upward. In the dim light Daelynn saw that the beam extended some fifty feet, ending at what appeared to be a landing. The fallen beam had demolished whatever stairs or ladder had existed in the past but offered itself as an alternative avenue to the higher levels.

Scrambling up the fallen timber, Daelynn alit onto the landing. Moonlight flooded into the roofless tower from a half-dozen apertures, only a few of which had at one time been windows. A slender plank, only inches wide, perhaps the remains of a floor, extended twenty feet from the landing to a broken and jagged gap in the tower's outer wall. Below was dimness and a fifty-foot fall. The elf looked at Sard who grinned and indicated she should proceed. Shaking her head, she tossed her cloak to the Guild member, secured the bag against her back, then easily walked the narrow path to the opening. There was enough light entering the structure at this level for Sard to notice the grace and ease of her movements.

By Tyr's left hand, the man observed, the women moved her hips in a most beguiling manner!

Daelynn found herself looking out over the Temple Quarter wall and into the Temple Plaza. She looked down at the top of the wall some thirty feet below her. Damn it, if the tower was not swaying! The top of the wall was about three feet wide, but at this height it looked more like three inches! She turned to the Guild thief as he settled in the aperture close beside her. She could smell spices on him; not strong, but pleasant. Cloves perhaps? One of her favorites.

"Really? So, just jump onto that wall? Only, what? Ten yards? And if I miss? It's over fifty feet to the ground. And in this light? No torches here but plenty of moonlight. It is insane to try, Sard."

"You asked for a way in. Here is a way in. But rather than jumping, which could result in death, why not use a rope and lower yourself to the wall?"

"Because, we used our ropes getting into a secret Beshaban shrine. Our exit was hasty and by another route. For the rest of the evening I was too busy being hunted through the city to replenish supplies, and…"

During her harangue Sard rooted in his bag, pulled out a coil of rope and handed it to her.

"Oh." The elf smiled at her peevishness. "Thank you."

"It's only five or six yards worth. You will still have to drop the rest of the way. As for too much moonlight, pray to Selune. Even a Thieves Guild Councillor cannot alter that for you. Though, may I say, as a Moon Elf, moonlight suits you."

Daelynn rolled her eyes. Sard chuckled.

Looking into the Temple Plaza they beheld a strange sight. Scattered throughout the plaza were tall light standards. Oil lamps usually burned in these, providing light to the plaza all night long. But tonight, many lamps were not lit and around several more, yards-wide black globes of darkness hung. This created a patchwork of shadow and light across the square. Some of the shadows were deep and dark enough in which to hide. Although the hour was late, worshippers and servants of diverse deities were usually always present. Except tonight.

"A shadowy, darkened, empty plaza," observed Sard. "Perfect cover for a thief. Or, as a trap to entice a thief. Which do you suppose it is?"

"Those globes of darkness could hide an enemy…"

"Or an ally," queried the master thief?

"No," replied Daelynn. "I expect to see no friends down there. Not until I reach the steps that lead to Tymora's temple."

The elf indicated the large grey stone structure across the plaza. Twenty or so steps led up to a set of large, open double doors. At this distance and angle, she could not see past them into the temple's vestibule.

Another shrill whistle sounded from below and back near the market place. Daelynn grimaced and tied off the rope Sard had offered to what she hoped was a secure board and not a rotten timber.

"They come." Daelynn whispered to herself.

She looked about her. No choice. She had to get into the plaza. She glared up at the night sky, cursing the bright waning moon. Moons and moonlight for her people were special things, but tonight all she wanted was for those clouds in the eastern sky to cover Selune's orb. _Ù_ _dun_! Wait. Where had they come from? The clouds, a billowing mass of grey-white, appeared to be moving quickly from the east towards Capitol.

"Sard, …the clouds."

The man looked up from examining the plaza. He watched the movement of the clouds for a few breaths.

"That is wrong," he stated. "At this time of year wind and cloud come from the west, from the Great Dry. They bring cold and dust. These appear to moving from the east."

"Smell the air," the elf directed. Her voice was excited. "Sea air. Salt. This bank of clouds comes from the east, contrary to nature's path! It will cover the moon and hide my descent to the wall. Divine aid!"

"Look!" Sard grabbed her arm and pointed into the plaza at the gateway that led to Old Town's market place. Someone had entered the plaza. Bathed in moonlight, the figure of a man dressed in a dark colored robe could be seen. Hands on hips, he surveyed the square. Although his features could not be made out this distance Daelynn recognized his demeanour. Braxes, Beshaba's cleric.

Braxes too, had seen the clouds moving to cover the moon. He let out a cry of anger and raised a fist shaking it in the direction of the Tymoran Temple. His gaze settled on the derelict tower. He pointed at it and shouted something over his shoulder and through the gateway. She had been still too long! Looking up at the clouds, she readied her rope. Soon!

Hollering from below drew the thieves' attention to the tower interior. Several people were milling about the tower base. A few carried torches. One fellow, more astute or daring then his companions, started to clamber up the beam.

Sard opened his bag and drew out a short bow and quiver of arrows. Bracing himself against the tower wall, he quickly and expertly strung the bow. Without appearing to aim he loosed an arrow at the climber. The man stopped, gazed dumbly at the shaft sticking in his neck, then slowly fell over, tumbling to the base of the beam. His fellow Scars, letting out howls of indignation and fear, wisely retreated from the tower interior.

Sard turned to te elf. "Best you hurry. I will delay them as best I can."

The night sky above the city darkened as the mass of cloud covered the bright moon. Holding the rope, Daelynn swung out and over the wall. As she lowered herself to the end of the rope she could hear shouting and movement from the tower interior again. Beneath her was blackness. She timed the swaying of the tower, offered a prayer and let go of the rope, dropping into the void.


	4. Chapter 4

**Graduation Day**

 **Chapter 4 – The Black Finger**

From her vantage point atop the wall, the elf regarded the dark-robed cleric. Daelynn had little knowledge of how divine magicks worked. Did he know she had departed the tower? Did he need to see her to curse her? Could one of his spells reach her at this distance? She touched the hidden pocket in her leather vest that held one of Tymora's blessed coins.

Braxes was now shouting something, his attention fixed on the Tymoran temple. Glancing across the plaza Daelynn saw movement at the temple doorway. A small, white-haired figure wearing a belted, grey robe exited from the vestibule to stand on the broad upper step. Mistress Alline. The elderly priestess's hands were clasped in front of her, held at chest height. The Preceptress regarded the plaza and slowly shook her head. She moved her left hand, as if shooing away a fly. The two globes of darkness closest to the temple vanished revealing two leather clad, armed figures. At a shouted command from Braxes the two men, both armed with swords, charged towards the temple steps.

Daelynn gasped as she realized that Alline was their intended target. She took a deep breath, ready to shout a warning when the priestess made a quick, small gesture with her right hand. Before any word of alarm could be spoken, the two men stopped in mid-stride. One had a foot on the lowest step of the temple, the other man was a yard or so behind the first. Both men stood stock-still, as if frozen in place.

The shouting from the tower had increased in volume. Sparing a glance rearward, the elf saw flames licking at the tower base. Thinking her still inside, the gang had fired the abandoned structure. Sard would soon be forced to follow her down the rope, Daelynn reasoned. But the elf could not risk waiting for the thief to exit – she had to move! Readjusting the strap of the bag that held the second half of the Trysech against her back, she slipped over the wall into a deeper darkness.

The uneven patchwork of light and shadow that filled the plaza offered Daelynn two routes to the base of Tymora's temple. One was relatively straightforward but passed near three of the dark globes, which she was certain held more enemies. A second pathway zigged and zagged towards the gateway and Braxes before veering back to the Tymoran refuge. Neither path would wholly hide her from searching eyes. As Braxes' abilities were unknown to her, she thought it best to avoid the cleric. Starting along the more direct path, she moved hurriedly from shadow to shadow.

Swift movement overhead caught her eye. An arrow passed harmlessly over the closest black globe and smashed in to the yard's stone flagging. Casting a quick glance back at the tower, she saw it was aflame. Smoke issued from every opening. Orange fire roared upwards. She could not see Sard. Another arrow, shot from the tower, arced in to the plaza. This one penetrated the black globe nearest her. A woman tumbled out of it. She clawed briefly at the arrow in her side then lay still. Her body sported leather armor and a broad belt that held several hatchets.

A third arrow flew across the plaza, entering the next closest globe of darkness. That globe winked out of existence revealing a stout young man now transfixed to the lamp standard by the arrow. An axe slipped from dying fingers and clattered to the pavement. Sard had cleared a pathway for her! She turned back to look again at the tower only to see it completely engulfed in flames. She watched with dismay as the ancient structure crumbled before her eyes. Flames, sparks and smoke climbed skyward; she heard the remains of the building crash to the ground beyond the wall; ash drifted in the air. Whatever Sard's debt to Roland, it had been repaid.

The elf turned away. Looking forward, there was only one sphere of darkness left between her and the temple steps. Braxes and Alline stood still; each cleric focused on the elf and her progress across the plaza. All the other temple doors were closed.

Daelynn glanced quickly at the axe lying on the ground near her. Too heavy for her to use, she judged. Drawing one of her throwing stars, she marched towards the last black globe. At twenty paces distance she threw the shuriken at the center of the ebon sphere. It had no sooner entered the darkness when a sharp metallic clang sounded from inside and the star flew out, tumbling across the plaza stones. In the same instant the globe dissolved, revealing an armor-clad figure illuminated by the two torches set high on the light standard.

The Black Finger stepped forward and away from the light pole. He wore a long, belted chain mail shirt and leather helmet. The rest of his clothing was dyed a deep, dark red, similar in color to the tunic and robes that she had seen Braxes wear. The man carried a short-sword in each hand. The sword in his right-hand was as black as midnight; the one in his left shone silver. Daelynn's sharp elven vision noted that the forefinger of his right leather glove had been dyed black. She had stopped her advance and watched the assassin. Average height, average build, unremarkable features, but he carried himself with an air of deadly menace. Armored and well armed, he moved lightly, his steps sure. He positioned himself directly between Daelynn and Tymora's temple.

"So, as yar alone I figure yar master's now dead?" The Black Finger waved the dark sword. "I call this beauty 'Beshaba's Bite'. It's a poisoned blade. Just a scratch will kill. And Tymora's Divine Seeker got more then a scratch!"

Daelynn had never heard the term 'Divine Seeker' before, but it well-suited Roland's work over the past year. And sounded so much better than 'Church Thief'.

"Were it up to me, I'd just kill ya and be done. But, powers that be says to make ya an offer. Leave the Trysech and walk away, now."

In reply Daelynn reached over her right shoulder and drew her own short-sword. Dropping her left hand to her side she pulled her long knife from its sheath on her thigh. She held both weapons at low guard - an invitation for the Black Finger to make the next move.

"Ha! I was hopin' that 'd be yar answer! Taken on yar master's quest, eh? I never killed two Divine Seekers in one day before! Die, Tymoran scum!"

The man set one sword at mid-guard, the other at high guard, and charged towards the elf. Repositioning her weapons, Daelynn leaped forward to meet him.

The first few passes were a test of the other's abilities. Thrusts, parries, half-hearted ripostes. Then the pace of battle quickened. Steel flashed in the torch light. The clang of metal, grunts, obscene oaths and an elven battle cry echoed across the square. A long knife was no match for a sword - Daelynn used hers more for deflection than attack. That should have forced her to a more defensive technique, but she compensated for inferior weaponry with youthful vigor and greater speed.

After a particularly violent exchange of blows both combatants drew back to assess damage and catch their breath. The Black Finger was breathing hard. He wiped sweat from his face and offered Daelynn a wolfish grin.

"By Beshaba's breasts! Whoo! Yar fast. No wonder my disciple failed. But no fancy Shadows like yar master? Wouldn't do any good. These blades are blessed."

"Blessed or cursed, it matters not." Daelynn pointed to a nasty looking gash in the man's right leg. "That will soon slow you."

The Black Finger sneered at the elf. "Not as much as ya might think! And although what I gave ya," he gestured at her left shoulder. "Is but a scratch, it was delivered by 'Biter'. Ya'll soon feel the effects of the poison. All I need do is delay ya."

Daelynn's reply was a quick thrust at the assassin's smirking face. The tip of her blade laid open his left cheek. His smirk became a lopsided scowl. He lunged at the elf, both swords thrusting for her mid-section. Daelynn countered with violent parries that left her opponent's left side momentarily open. She swung hard. She knew that a side strike from a shortsword was not going to penetrate chainmail. But when you cannot cut, lacerate or stab - you hammer. She had struck the same spot twice before in their brief struggle; this third strike was the fiercest yet, and it accomplished her goal. The blow broke two of the man's ribs.

From painful, personal experience, gained in training with her mentor, the elf knew that a cracked rib makes each breath hurt. Having to breathe hard and fast due to battle increased the pain five-fold. With his left side momentarily immobilized, the Black Finger was forced to counter with his right-hand sword, the deadly 'Biter'. He brought it over hand in a desperate, deadly, smashing blow aimed at the elf's head.

Daelynn parried, bringing her own sword up hard against the dark blade. It was a novice move that a more experienced fighter would not have made. Striking hard, blade to blade, edge to edge, focused a large amount of force on a small area; her inferior sword shattered.

Only her uncanny speed allowed her to dodge two swipes of the assassin's swords. The elf dove to one side, trying to put distance between herself and death. She tumbled, rolled and scrambled unsteadily to her feet, aware that she had been struck on her right leg.

The Black Finger stood some ten or twelve steps away. He leaned over to his left, favoring that side. Pointing the black blade at Daelynn, he taunted her.

"Too bad about yar sword. And that's another hit. More poison in yar blood. End will come quicker now. Yar slowing."

Perhaps it was the power of the man's words, but Daelynn's vision seemed to cloud. Her wounded leg throbbed and damn it if her cut arm was not going numb. Time was running out. It had to be now.

Sheathing her knife, Daelynn reached into her belt and vest with both hands. She quickly drew and released her last weapons. Four quick flicks of her wrist sent four objects whirling towards the Black Finger. Three razor sharp, spinning discs were fired dead center at the man's armored chest.

Armored or not, a warrior's training and instinct is to avoid a strike. The Black Finger could not move fast enough to dodge the missiles, but he didn't have to. Rapid parries with his black blade sent three throwing stars bouncing across the plaza in random directions. It was at the same instant that his sword struck the fourth object that he realized by its shape, color and manner in which it had been thrown, that it was not a shuriken. His sword destroyed the weak cotton bag, releasing its contents in a yellow-red cloud of fine powder that encompassed his head and shoulders.

A few grains of the expensive, exotic spice that Daelynn had stolen would add zest to any drink. A spoonful would give ample flavor to a meal. A cupful thrown in the face would burn eyes, blister the inside of the nose if breathed, and sear throat and lungs. Coughing, crying and gagging, the Black Finger desperately sought to wipe the spice from his eyes, but his efforts only made things worse.

Drawing her knife, Daelynn charged. The assassin was now flailing about, his swords cutting viscous arcs through the air, trying to fend off the attack he knew was coming. She dropped to the ground, sliding along the paved plaza, slightly below the drifting spice cloud and slashing blades. As she slid by his left side, her knife cut deep in to his knee, severing muscle and tendons. The man cried out and crashed to the ground. Stopping her slide, she jumped to her feet, snatched up the silver blade that had fallen from the assassin's grasp, and sprang upon her hapless foe.

Daelynn struck twice with the flat of the sword; once across the top of her foes' head and then again across the back of his right hand. The head blow stunned him while the blow to the hand disarmed him, the dark blade slipping from nerveless fingers. With her eyes tearing, Daelynn stepped back out of the fast dissipating spice cloud

The Black Finger slowly rolled over and peered up at his vanquisher with watery eyes. In a hoarse voice he swore at her. Hesitantly, he tried to remove the glove from his right hand. He had to use his teeth to do it. Stretched out upon the plaza flagstones, he glared up at the elf, raised his right hand and pointed a black dyed finger at her.

"You've done for me. But if my poison don't get ya, then a Black Finger's Death Curse will!"

He started to chant. Leaping forward, Daelynn shouted a prayer to Tymora, making two swift cuts with the silver sword. The assassin's right hand fell to the ground, neatly severed from his arm at the wrist. Before any cry of pain or horror could be made, the sword ended its second pass in the man's throat.

Using the discarded glove, she cleaned her knife and new sword of gore, sheathed the weapons, and started once more towards Tymora's temple, leaving the body of her master's killer sprawled in a pool of blood. She was having trouble focusing her sight, and the leg and arm that had been gashed by 'Biter' were leaden. Passing the two men who still stood frozen-fast to the base of the steps, Daelynn turned and looked back across the plaza to the west gateway. Braxes was no longer there.

Limping up the stairs, the elf approached Mistress Alline, who had descended part way to meet her. Halting a step above the elf, the cleric stretched out a hand and gently touched Daelynn's head. The elf could feel her pain, nausea and fatigue ebbing away. She pulled the bag from her back and handed it to Alline.

"Sir Roland is dead."

The cleric opened her mouth to speak but instead simply nodded and with tear-filled eyes hugged the girl to her. Arm in arm the cleric and the thief slowly mounted the stairs and entered the temple.

 **Epilogue: Divine Seeker**

Two young acolytes ambled through the grey stone halls of Tymora's temple complex. They were chatting about the day's matins service and complaining about the "old lady". Harmless banter, and their tone was affectionate, although Mistress Alline would not have been amused.

The pair strolled on, oblivious to the figure hidden in the hallway shadows. Daelynn watched the duo turn a corner. Now out of view from chatty novices, the elf maid stepped into the corridor and strode down it to small doorway at the far end. A blue-edged grey cloak, hood up, covered her form. Across her back was strapped a sword, the hilt jutting slightly above her right shoulder.

Daelynn entered the room, a cozy warm study, where Preceptress Alline, Matriarch of Tymora's Church in the East, sat at a table, perusing parchments. The elf seated herself on a small divan and waited. Mistress Alline looked up and greeted the elf.

"Good morning, child."

"Aye ma'am. It is," the elf replied.

Alline smiled. Although favored by Tymora, Daelynn had been hesitant to take on Roland's role. She had set some conditions, which Alline had been only too glad to grant. Not that the elf needed to know that just yet. The aged cleric pushed her work aside.

"Two of my brother clerics from our western church were supposed to arrive here last month," Alline stated. "They are not only late but are missing. They were last seen in Karst."

Daelynn raised one eyebrow. "And you wish me to find them, and bring them here?"

Alline nodded her head in agreement. "Be careful, Daelynn."

The elf stood, pushed back a lock of dark hair, and smiled at her employer and spiritual mentor. "I am always careful, Mistress."

As Daelynn slipped quietly back into the hallway, Alline snorted in reply, turning back to her work. But her mind was not on the dreary task of record keeping. Instead the cleric offered a prayer to her goddess asking her to watch over her new Divine Seeker.

END -


End file.
